Flush
by Rosetta Penn
Summary: Sometimes a situation is stranger then it appears. Behind the scenes Rachel Dawes pushes into the Joker's past, determined to bring him forward into a different future. JOKACHEL! Explicit content, warning inside.
1. Teaser

**AN:** A quick FYI:

This IS a jokachel story, don't worry.

However, no, this is not exclusively a jokachel fic.

While this isn't exactly what you would call "cannon", it does fit realistically into the movie time line, and does not directly contradict movie events so much as it works around them. I mean come on, the Dark Night is an amazing film, who would want to screw with that?..now that Joker on the other hand.. ;)

That said, if you're looking for some PWP, look elsewhere. However,

A Warning: Contains violence, sex (possible noncon), incest, and strong language.

Disclaimer: I am not the creator of the Nolanverse.

Happy Reading :)

* * *

**FLUSH**

_A Dark Knight fan fiction, by Rosetta Penn_

TEASER

Dirt. Dirt, dirt, all around. Dirty dirty things.

Dirty blue shoes, dirty pants, dirty socks, dirty blueish brow marks on his cheeks, dirty fingernails. Stains on the carpet, messy clothes all over the floor, filthy, filthy noises all around. His little head was all filled up with dark filthy sounds. Banging and screaming and crying. He hugged his knees to his chest and pulled on curly brown chunks of hair.

Father and Mommy Karen were fighting each other, again. They were making loud noises in the kitchen. Loud scary noises that made him want to disappear into the dirty whitewashed wall behind him.

He squeezed the deck of playing cards in his hands. He had seen them in the grocery store when Mommy Karen took him shopping. They were thick, and glossy, and each card had a pretty red pattern on the back. It was the kind of pattern you could never get tired of looking at, because each time you saw it you found something new, just like magic.

Yeah, just like magic.

That's why he got them. Mommy Karen had a magic baby that could live inside her belly. When the baby came out he though it'd probably like some magic cards to remind it of it's old home. He knew what it was like to be homesick. When he was younger he used to live in a different house, Father lived there too, but Mommy Karen didn't. He couldn't remember much of it, but he knew it was better then this house. He knew it didn't have the crunchy bugs, and the backyard had a tree.

A dish broke against the kitchen wall, He cringed and clutched more tightly at the playing cards.

"Shit Karen! You know what Maroni has me doing out there all day!"

"Yes I _know, _and I can't do this! I can't do it any more Jack! I'm leaving!"

"Fine! Haul your fucking ass out of here! Go live on the fucking street, with you're fucking trash friends! That's what you are, you're trash, nothing but fucking trash!"

He cringed at the raised voices.

A well-worn loafer nudged his own. He turned and looked up. Warm wool trousers, rolled up sleeves, smell of gun smoke, it was a familiar figure. The man raised his eyebrows.

"Heya little Joker, what's, uh, up?"

"Mommy Karen and Father are fighting again"

"Wha? Oh yeah, sounds like real nasty one eh…how bout a Joke?"

"I'm scared"

The man gave him a puzzled glance and ruffled his greasy brown hair. He pursed his lips, making a messy popping noise, and leaned in closer to the little boy.

"How bout a scary Joke then?"

"There's no such thing"

The man gave a wild, low timbered, chuckle.

"No such thing? Kid, kid, kid, all right now listen to me. This kinda thing, this kinda mess, happens all the time. And if there ain't no way out, you gotta twist it, grind it into your fist, until it cracks. Till it cracks a nice big smile."

The man received a doubtful stare.

"Don't look at me like that kid. When I tell you something I mean it. I've always been here for you. But I'm a man of my word see and you gotta trust me, or I'm not coming round to see you anymore, got it?"

There was a brief pause, then the boy nodded.

"Now then look at that over there, look at him shaking her. She's wobbling about like an great big penguin, you can't tell me that doesn't make you want to laugh."

"I-"

Suddenly his fathers furious red face turned towards him, the boy's words caught in his throat and his hands began shaking slightly. The playing cards rattled in their hard plastic case.

"What are you staring at?" His father snarled, taking an angry step towards him.

The woman scrambled up to her feet, steadying herself on a metal folding chair.

"Jack, leave him alone."

"Who are you talking to boy?" His father demanded. Fear locked up the young boy's jaw, he couldn't make a sound.

"Jack, he's scared that's all. Leave him alone…people are starting to ask questions-"

"God damn it, the freaky little fucks talking to them fucking ghosts again! There's something wrong with kid, he's god damn embarrassment!"

"Jack…"

In a few short strides his father was towering above him, grabbing His face in his large hand, jolting him back and forth.

"Who are you talking to? Huh? Answer me you freaky little bastard! Answer me!"

The big mans hand raised, tightening into a fist. The woman screamed.

"Jack stop it!"

"He's my son! He's not gonna grown up to be some crazy fucking lunatic!"

The man's closed fist raised higher.

_Jack!"_

***J***

"What do you propose?" The Chechen's man's rough voice slipped the question into the air. It hung there for a moment, watching, waiting, and then,

"It's simple" He began naturally "We, uh, kill the batman"

An apprehensive laughter trickled down the table.

"If it's so simple why haven't you done it?" the Chechen man challenged, his words curling with mockery.

He felt the anger spurn up inside him, but suppressed it. At least for the time being. Big Mr. Glaring Gambol over there was starting to get on his nerves…

"If you're good at something, never do it for free"

Another pause.

"How much you want?"

He smiled. Good, now they were getting somewhere.

"Uh…half" Again, the nervous laughter. Though this time it was a bit more forthcoming.

"You're crazy" The Chechen jested.

His fingers clenched inside their leather covering, twitching on the little pull string inside his jacket, his breath came faster. He twisted his neck to the side. Not. Now.

"I'm not," He said, clenching his teeth on his anger. He thought of that thugs head slamming into the pencil. Boom. Slam. He inhaled deeply through his nose. "No, I'm not."

***J***

There were hallways. There were lots of rooms. There were uncomfortable padded chairs. There was funny music. There were people in funny pink dresses and funny white coats. There was screaming. There was a sign that read "Gotham General".

Mommy Karen started screaming last night so they had brought her here, she was still screaming. The magic baby had to come out now, but it didn't want to leave. Father had looked worried. The little boy turned to the man beside him.

"Why is the magic baby hurting Mommy Karen?"

The man clicked his tounge.

"How'd you like it if someone tried to rip you outta your house kid?"

"How- how did the baby get inside?"

"I told you kid, magic"

"But what _kind _of-"

The man turned to him angrily.

"Why? What's it matter? Why should I know the why and the how? Do you know? Stop questioning kid. Just do. Just go and do. It's time you learned to stop living life so serious."

The boy sat back in he seat crestfallen.

Meanwhile a frazzled looking Doctor stepped out of the adjacent hospital room. Leaning back against the wall, he straightened his tie in a manor that suggested a familiarity with the action. His brow furrowed with concern when he locked eyes with the boy and he began taking worried steps toward him, when a pink uniformed NA blocked his path. He stole one more troubled glance at the boy, and then began to speak to the intern in hushed tones.

"…Called it at 3:12. She hemoraged, placenta previa, not much we could have done." The doctor paused for a moment, glancing again at the boy "Hey be careful in there, boyfriend nearly took my head off, and…look I got another patient up in critical, but when your done in there, take a look at that boy. I think-" a series of ringing beeps vibrated from under the doctors coat, he removed the small black pager from his belt, "Shit. I have to go." He hurried off in the other direction mumbling something about "incompetent residents".

The boy pondered the woman approaching him, her heels clicking sharply on the hospital's tile floor. Kneeling, she tugged lightly on the hem of his shorts.

"Hey sweetie" she smiled sweetly, "How would you like to see your new baby sister?"

She reminded him of Mommy Karen a little. Something about that sweet sunny smile. A smile that was a bit too sweet to be genuine. A forced smile, but not a false one. It suggested a conflicting frame of mind, a hopeless optimism, an empty confidence. It was a smile the better half of Gotham was well acquainted with.

The woman was holding out her hand to him. The little boy looked at the chair opposite him where the man in the brown trousers sat, cross-legged, whistling to himself. When he saw the boy staring he raised his eyebrows in mock jest.

"Ok" said the boy, the NA's warm hand closed around his. "What's her name?" he asked.

"Jillian."

"Jillian" he repeated slowly.

She led him down the hallway, quickening her pace as she passed the room Mommy Karen was is. They walked into a room with soft pink walls and a light turquoise border around the ceiling. It was full of all kinds of confusing machinery the boy found completely unfamiliar, but he was ushered past all of theses and led behind a curtain to a rather industrial sort of metal and plastic bassinet. Inside was the most incredible thing the boy had ever seen.

She was so _new_. He had never had anything new in his life, not clothes, or shoes, or toys. She smelled clean, and fresh, and she was so incredibly tiny. Her wrinkled little face, her pink puffy cheeks, her soft sleepy gurgling; it was such an adorable innocence.

"She's magical," he whispered.

The brown trousered man leaned over him. "I told ya didn't I?"

***J***

"Evening, Commissioner" he drawled mockingly, twiddling his thumbs.

Commissioner Gordon walked up to the table, pulled up a chair, and sat down. He was angry.

"Harvey Dent never made it home"

He chewed at his bottom lip and looked up from the table.

"Of course not" he said off handedly.

"What have you done with him?" Gordon demanded.

"Me?" Feigning innocence he widened his eyes questioningly, while tilting his head to the side and pursing his lips in a gruesome pout. "I was right here" He held up his handcuffed wrists. "Who did you leave him with, hm? Your people?"

Gordon's mouth tightened to an angry thin line, but worry was just starting to cross his old tired eyes. It was just too amusing.

"That's assuming of course that they are still your people, and not _Maroni's_" he let every syllable of the name roll past his lips with a sinister emphasis.

He smacked his lips, tasting the gritty pool of emotions pouring out of the commissioner. Anger, fear, worry, guilt, yes, so much guilt. And yet he barely understood what real guilt was.

"Does it depress you commissioner? To know just how alone you really are? Does it make you feel responsible for Harvey Dent's current predicament?" The commissioner's fist banged angrily on the table.

"Where is he?" he repeated more loudly.

"What's the time?" he asked. He sat back, drinking in the not so sudden break in the man's composure.

"What difference does that make?"

"Well," he began slowly. His tongue flickered out of his mouth and he bit down on the inside of his cheek. "Depending on the time, he may be in one spot or…several."

***J***

Thwack.

"Ace, I win," he said slapping his card atop the monolium flooring. He reached for his prize, two heavily used red motiefed playing cards. A tiny, suntanned hand curled itself around his wrist.

"I don't think so" Jillian smirked, holding her own weathered card out of reach. He twisted his wrist from her grasp.

"No way! Only a Joker can beat that ace and I won both from you ages ago!"

"Are you sure?" she teased coyly, placing her winning card daintily on top of the pile. He frowned as she swept up her winnings.

"I swear I had that card" he muttered beneath his breath, "this isn't fair" but he threw another card down on the floor, seven spades. Jillian laughed, setting her card next to his.

"Of course not"

"Then you admit to cheating! I did have that card, you're not playing fair!"

"Jackie, dahling, _life_ doesn't play fair. Why should I?"

"Because!"

"Oh, yes, well of course. When you put it that way-" Jillian trailed off as her eyes rolled down to look at the card she'd just played "Eight of clubs. Looks like I win again."

She reached for the cards but he got there first, yanking them out of her grasp, which earned him a tackling, and sever kicks to the gut. Much struggling, and a little snarling, later he managed somehow to pin her to the floor, kicking and screaming though she was.

"Cheating son of a bitch, get off me!"

"Hyporyite," he ridiculed. And don't talk like that. It's not the way intelligent people speak. Try talking like that in a courtroom and they'll hold you in-in-"

"Contempt, genius"

"Yeah, contempt." He sighed, relaxing his hold a bit. "Christ, you know, sometimes I really can't believe you're just a kid"

"That's because I'm not!" she shot back angrily "And anyway the day I set foot in a courtroom I'll have to trade in mothers old sewing machine for a pair of skates in order to get there, because hell will have frozen over"

"Well, we're not in hell"

She gave him a dubious glance. "Oh really?"

He scowled, "Look you're gonna get to college, then law school, where after you'll land a prestigious internship in Gotham's snootiest law firm-"

"But I want to work for the city"

"And you'll be the best DA Gotham's ever seen. Heck, you'll be the best _Judge_ Gotham's ever seen. Her honor Madam Jillian-"

"Jack stop." She interrupted seriously. Her voice was small and deflated. "I've known for a long time we don't have the money for college. It's ok."

"Jill, I'm going to get you there." She starred back up at him doubtfully. "Even if I have to hold up a bank." She laughed. He loved the sound of her laugh. It was a blessedly melodious sound, pure and strong, just like her.

"Hmm, well, I suppose once I get my degree I could always get you out, by reasons of insanity of course" His grip on her tightened, his body going rigid. Shadows began creeping there way into the corners of his eyes. Jillian faltered, realizing exactly what she had said.

"Jack-Jack I'm sorry. I didn't mean…you know it seems so long ago for me, I was just a kid"

"You're still a kid" he interrupted angrily. But his body calmed, it had been an honest mistake. She hadn't meant anything by it. "But it's a deal."

"Good" she said, beginning to squirm impatiently under him "Because if I'm going to be a judge then I can say whatever I want. Now get the fuck off me!" Her knee shot up to jab him in the gut and he rolled off her groaning. He felt his temper beginning to flare, that _really _hurt,

"Jill cut it out, I mean it!" he shouted "That's not kind of filth I want slipping through my innocent little sisters lips"

She screamed, pushed him roughly, and jumped to her feet, whirling round to him. Jillian had quite the temper of her own and he could see outrage burning in her eyes.

"Really?" she yelled, kicking the wall "Well, what exactly would you like to slip through my _innocent little lips?_"

He reeled back from her "That's sick!"

She kicked the cards across the floor. "Why? She demanded shrilly. "Because I'm such a _child_? I see the way you look at me!"

"Because you're my SISTER!" he bellowed after her.

"Half!" Her voice was chocking up and she thought her saw her eyes grow watery.

"That doesn't matter!" He turned around to leave but she grabbed his arm and forced him to look in her direction.

"No. No it doesn't. What matters is that I love you, and you love me!"

He shoved her off of himself "Not like that!"

She stepped back, calm rage burning inside her.

"But you let him love me like that Jack." She turned and sprinted from the room.

***J*******

"Okay, stop!" He did. Or rather, everything else did, everything but a faint, churning buzz. That voice…

He turned. It wasn't. Of course it wasn't. She was gone. _Jillian_ was gone. And yet, the resemblance was uncanny. It wasn't really physical, otherwise he would have noticed it much sooner. He recognized the woman of course. Rachel Dawes, assistant D.A., intelligent, attractive enough, especially for a lawyer. But she was older, while Jillian had been so unforgivably young…beautiful…

"Well, hello, beautiful" the taunt rolled past his lips. He tossed the old man to the side. His mind raced forward while his body shifted into auto drive, filling in the blank spaces in a mechanical fashion with nonchalant, practiced, cruelty. He sauntered towards her, raising his hand to slick back his hair with his knife. "You must be Harvey's new squeeze, hmm? And you are beautiful."

He drew closer to her, smell of something sharp and tangy, sophisticated. Fear. He breathed in deeper, slower. She cowered, bending inwards towards herself, locking him out. No. He circled her. Her pulse raced. The buzzing continued, growing louder. He was loosing control. Control of her, control of himself, control of the situation…Jillian…no. He locked himself more fully into auto drive. Pushing the words out, pre editing them, creating a scenario of _his_ choosing.

"You look nervous" She was nervous. She was scared of him. It was her fault, she gave him this feeling. He hated it, hated her. Lawyer bitch, she wasn't his sister. She was nothing like Jillian. Jillian was never scared. She was so brave. What the hell was this woman staring at? Him?

"Is it the scars?" Her body said yes, her eyes said no. "You want to know how I got them? Come'ere"

***J***

"You're going to have to pay for that."

"I can fix it for twenty bucks."

Jillian shook her head at fist-sized hole in the wall. Her eyes wandered up the pale yellow wallpaper; evidently the hospitals go at creating "cheery" atmosphere. A building full of shrinks should know better.

"You could fix drywall for twenty bucks. I don't know what that is. Do you?" He didn't answer. "Jack?" She took a cautious step forward; her hand raised a few hesitant inches above his shoulder.

"Don't touch me."

"I want to" she said, her hand falling helplessly back by her side.

"Don't"

They stood there in silence for a moment that tripped into a while. Jillian watched her brother watch the floor. He dropped to his knees.

"I'm not leaving," she whispered.

"I don't want you to"

"Good." She breathed in deeply, the air felt tight. "Can I touch you now?"

"No"

"I want to"

"Don't"

She swallowed leaden tears and sank to the floor beside him.

"So that's…" she began hesitantly, "I mean, without your medication, that's what it's like. That's him."

"Yeah"

"I never realized..I mean that was real Jack. I really thought you we're talking to another person" Jillian shifted uneasily on her feet. She heard him suck in another tight breath through his nostrils. "But, the doctor said he would give you the better pills right?"

"Yeah" His voice was heavy with exhaustion, brimming with tears.

She felt her own composure splinter apart. She batted at her eyes quickly, looking up at the ceiling and over to the wall until the yellow pattern blurred in front of her. "Ok"

"It's not just the pills Jill. I need..I need help." he was disgusted with frail weakness of his voice.

Jillian shook her head above him. "But you know it's not real. You've always known it's not real."

"Not always"

"Well not when you were a kid, but everyone believes in their imaginary friends when they're kids"

"He's not imaginary"

"But he's not real!" Jillian's palm flattened sharply against the wall, Jack felt the vibration jolt against his back. "Jack, why didn't the other pills work?"

His head fell back against the wall. "I'm supposed to come back…talk to him"

"So you'll talk-"

"We can't come back here Jill" he interrupted.

"Why?"

"We don't have the money"

"But you're sick." She said insistently. "The hospital has to treat you if you're sick, it doesn't matter if you have the money."

"Only if you're really sick" As he closed his eyes a salty tear snuck down his cheek. "I'd have to be an inpatient, and I'm not leaving you."

With a light thud Jillian dropped to her knees beside him. The warmth in her brown eyes started him so much that he jumped as she took his hand in both of hers. Jillian mistook the gesture for hardness, and clamped her hands tighter around his.

"Ok," she said, holding his hand more firmly still. He could feel the pulse in her wrist thump under his. "So you talk to me."

She bent closer to him, and her top lip landed candy sweet atop his.

***J***

"There's only minutes left, you're going to have to play my little game if you want to save one of them."

"Them?"

The Batman's grip tightened on his collar, pushing him further back into the wall. The Joker saw the masked man's forceful lip twitch upward slightly with furious confusion. He thought it was beautiful.

"You know for awhile there I really thought you were Dent, the way you threw yourself after her" The batman flipped him upside down onto the table, he laughed in pain. "Look at you go! Does Harvey know about you and his little bunny?"

His head smashed into the double mirror. The pain crunching down through spine was delightful. But not as delightful as the knowledge that he had shattered the Batman's control ages ago. In a moment of sinful satisfaction he allowed himself to picture Rachel in his mind, fear pulsing through her veins as his hand had twisted around her neck.

A fist pounded into his face.

"Where are they?" The Batman demanded, his fist already rushing down a second time.

"Killing is making a choice" he insisted, biting his lip on laughter. "Choose between one life or the other. Your friend the district attorney, or his blushing bride to be." When the Batman's fist pummeled into his face yet again, he let go, bursting into hysterics.

"You have nothing!" he shouted. He could feel his face beginning to swell and go numb; he bit down hard on the inside of his cheek to prolong the pain. "Nothing to do with all your strength!"

He felt himself wedged against the wall once more, but he knew it wasn't the Batman that held him there, not really. It was the panic radiating from under his armor, the terror, the complete and total feeling of helplessness. He felt himself swell with arrogance at the comrodity he had tied between them.

"Don't worry, I'm going to tell you where they are, both of em, and that's the point," his tongue curled outward as his mouth twisted into a smirk. "You have to choose."

Because I won't, he thought as he rattled off the two address's. Because I refuse, and she cannot. Not yet.

***J***

It was the smell.

More then anything else, it was the smell that caused his heart to stop beating. It wasn't her screams, or the heat, or the sick black smoke billowing up from the space beneath the door. He had experienced all those things before. Even the bloody metallic taste, pooling through his lips from corners of his mouth, was painfully familiar to him. However the smell of charred hair and burning flesh was something new to his senses.

Jack slammed himself repeatedly against the locked door in front of him. He cried out in pain and rage as the wood splintered under the weight of his shoulder, the threatening groan of the old hinges taunting him. The smoke was coming slower. He failed to notice that the last of Jillian's brittle screams had stopped minutes ago. With a final shudder of protest the door buckled and gave way. Jack burst out into the hallway, coughing on a hot breath of smoke.

He swaggered into Jillian's bedroom. Phantom figures flashed before his eyes. His father, drunk off the bottle of whiskey he slammed on the nightstand, had discovered them together in Jillian's bed.

Jack's foot bumped into something on the floor, a knife. He saw his father bending over him, his eyes furious. But not with disgust, with jealousy.

"_You kiss her with those lips boy?" _And he had brought the knife up against the corner of Jack's mouth…

Jillian had side tackled him. His father swore and spun around, throwing her on the ground, but not before she managed to pry the knife out of his hands.

"_You know you're mother was a whore too"_ He'd yanked her up from the floor by a fistful of hair and pinned her against the wall.

"_Your sweet little ass has had it too easy. I think it's time you learn how a kid like you earns her own way out on the streets."_ His eyes raked down her body like sludge and he pressed himself up against her fully.

"_Or maybe you'd prefer the two of us come up with a separate arrangement,"_ his hands slid down to her hips, _"Baby.."_

"_Get bent"_ Jillian had hissed, and she'd rammed the knife into his gut.

His father had roared and smashed the whiskey bottle from the nightstand over her head. She had fallen to floor unconscious, whiskey dripping off her hair and face.

"_Bitch! Dumb fucking bitch!"_ his father had screamed, doubling with pain as he ripped the knife from his side. Blood began gush dark red from the wound as he'd continued to shout, _"You'll burn in hell for that you dirty cunt! Fuck!"_

From across the room Jack had watched his father fumble for something in his pocket, a lighter. He'd pitched himself forward across the floor but the older man had been too quick, catching him hard with his foot under the chin. Jack had reeled backward dizzy with pain, and his father dragged him into the room across the hall.

"_If you know what's good for you you'll stay in there you little shit!" _he'd shouted, before locking the door and staggering back into Jillian's bedroom. Moments later Jack had started to smell the burning.

Now a low moaning tore him from the horrors playing in his mind. He saw his father slumped over on the floor, barely conscious and soaked in blood from the waist down. Jack picked the knife up off the floor and silently approached him, kneeling down. His father's eyes widened and his legs pushed uselessly against the floorboard as he tried to push himself away.

Jack felt a warm hand close comfortingly on his shoulder. He turned surprised and found himself looking up at a familiar face.

"Crack a smile for me?" He blinked and the man was gone.

Jack turned back to his father. He grabbed his chin in one hand, using the other to force the knife between his teeth. His father's eyes shook in their sockets, pupils dilated. He leaned forward and smacked his lips against the dying man's ear,

"Smile pretty for me." His father's lips twitched upward faintly. "Bigger," he commanded, his voice taking on an unrecognizable low tone. He pressed the knife into the corner of his mouth until a small red bead dribbled down his chin. His father whimpered under him in response and Jack shook his head. In one quick motion he dragged the knife up through his cheek until it connected with his jaw. "Better."

He rose, letting his father's head full back limp. He scanned the room and his eyes locked onto Jillian's make shift vanity made from an old desk and a cracked mirror. He knew the desk drawers would be full of her possessions.

Jack opened the long top drawer. Despite the fact that the desk was practically an antique the smell that came out of the open drawer was fresh and new, like her. He was reminded of the first time her saw her in the hospital. She was the most wonderful thing he had ever set eyes on.

Scattered loosely among a variety of cosmetics and other objects was a familiar deck of playing cards. Most of them were turned over, an anonymous red patterned mystery, but a few were turned face up. One specific card caught his attention in particular. It was different then all the others. Instead of a uniform number, five twirling block letters spelled out its identity J- O- K-

He crushed it in his fist.

His fingers curled next around a small red tube of lipstick. He uncapped it and lifted it to his lips, letting it slide across them like cream silk. Gasping, he flicked his tongue out hoping to taste some trace of her, and imagining the ghost her sweet lips pressing and pulling on his.

Jack looked up into the mirror; his eyes bore no recognition in the man looking back at him. The stranger in the reflection lifted his hand and slipped it beneath his shirt to lie flat and heavy on top the left side of his chest. He expected to feel a pounding hemorrhage strong enough to bring the city's tallest buildings to a tremble. There was only stillness, and silence.


	2. Here we go

**AN: **It's the next chapter! See, I'm actually writing!! YAY! It's really short, I know, and there's no Jokachel action (PLEASE don't close the page!!). However I promise chapters will get longer, and better, as the story unwinds.

And to clear up any confusion, the initial teaser is gone. The old chapter one has become the new teaser. And this has become the new chapter one, because this is where the story really begins. Speaking of new beginnings, I have a question for all of you...but you might want to read the chapter first...

Ok, read it? Scroll back on up, all right, here's the question:

Would you as readers like to continue to read scenes from the Joker's pov? On the one hand, it would be a tad inconsistent to eliminate the Joker's pov when that was all the "teaser" was. But on the other hand, I think the teaser chapter could work as a stand alone piece, sort of just like a tag-a-long to the actual story. Also, the Joker is such an intense, multi-layered character, I'm not sure I have the stamina to do him justice if I continue to tell things from his side, it's tricky enough to do an omniscient view point successfully to begin with! And finally, I think the story might start to drag if I do both viewpoints. Right now I'm sort of leaning towards just Rachel's pov, however some of you expressed that you really enjoyed getting inside the Joker's head...so just tell me what you think. Please :)

* * *

HERE WE GO

Time stopped and vertigo split her vision as she spun off the glass roof of the building. The air sliced back her eyelids and inside her eardrums, so that she was the only one that couldn't hear her screams. She was falling, fast. Her rapid decent was growing more perilous by the foot. Panic slammed the air out of her lungs with greater violence as the trail of parked cars below her grew larger and closer. She reached out desperately in a useless attempt to latch herself back onto the building. As each windowpane flew upwards and out of reach, she prayed to see Bruce's eyes looking back at her from beneath his mask. Those eyes that she alone could recognize. And his gloved hands, reaching back out to her, and pulling her to safety. But each windowpane was empty and bare. He wasn't coming.

And now as the air continued to rush by her, she could make out details in the people getting in and out of the trail of cars. Her heart clenched one final time and she closed her eyes in preparation for the shattering of glass and the crack of her skull against a windshield-

Her head smacked sharply against her desk. There was a knock at the door and young woman stepped tentatively inside the office.

"Miss Dawes?" Rachel looked up, glowing bursts of yellow flashing painfully in front of her eyes. "Miss Dawes?" She groaned, hoping it was low enough to be inaudible. "Miss Dawes," the concerned voice repeated a third time, "are you all right?"

"I'm fine," she lied, instantly regretting the sharpness in her voice and pressing her fingers deep into her temples. A minute later, after her sight had cleared, she looked back up at the doorway, a little surprised to see the woman still standing there silently.

She was small, blonde, and young, still in her early twenties. Rachel's eyes wandered over the girls inexpensive business suit, dressed up with killer stilettos far too fashionable to be office appropriate. She frowned realizing she must be yet another intern. However she looked genuinely concerned, and in her hands she held a thick manila file.

"Yes?" Rachel prompted when the girl made no move to come forward.

"I don't mean to bother you- " Rachel raised an eyebrow and the girl looked down, fumbling with the folder. "But I have the file on Falcone for the Lau case..." she trailed off.

Rachel sighed and gestured toward a pile of identical folders already nearly half a foot high, "Put it on the desk with the others."

The girl teetered over and Rachel laughed silently, finding herself taking an odd kind of pity on the girl. She remembered her first years at the district attorney's office. How proud she had been to finally feel like she was making a difference, but mostly how she'd spent the first few months scared shitless that despite four years of pre law, everyone would see past her facade of honors and awards, and see her for what she truly was, the daughter of a struggling lower middle class family. And oh yes, childhood friend of local billionaire Bruce Wayne.

As the girl struggled back to the door in her break neck heels Rachel coughed expectantly. The intern turned around in the doorway, nearly jumping out of skin. Rachel paused, struggling to remember her name and drawing a blank, "Miss..um.."

"_Mrs._ Daniels, ma'm" she touched a simple gold band on her left ring finger.

Lucky girl, Rachel thought, either lucky or stupid. For a moment her mind flashed to Harvey and his own very recent, very unexpected, proposal. The one to which she had still not given an answer. The petrified intern was looking at her expectantly. "Well then, _Mrs._ Daniels," she smiled warmly "thank you."

"Your welcome Miss Dawes," the intern beamed as she left the office, shutting the door behind her.

Rachel sighed and sank backward in her chair. She would have thought a near death experience would have earned her a long weekend at the very least, however…she glanced back over at the ominous pile of folders.

Bending back toward her desk she began to comb relentlessly through the case file in front of her once more, scolding herself for her self-pity. The reality was that her superiors and colleagues had been more then generous to the circumstance; in fact Harvey had practically insisted she take the entire week off. It had been her decision to return immediately. She had come back to the office only a few short hours after the fundraiser, stopping first only briefly at her and Harvey's shared apartment to change. She had insisted on going through every file personally, refusing to leave anything to less capable hands. Less capable, because they hadn't been dropped a roof by a madman in a clown suit.

However for all her scrutiny she hadn't turned up anything useful that had not already been found by the other lawyers and detectives working around the clock just as tirelessly as she was. She simply couldn't focus.

Maybe the eighth cup of coffee would do the trick.

She left her office and headed down the hall towards the break room. It was empty and silent, save the voices coming out of a large flat screen TV turned to the city news station.

"…_today friends and family mourn the memory City Justice Madam Surrillo, at the nine o'clock funeral mass at St Fabien's cathedral. City members will remember the unfortunate events of last Monday, when her Honor was just one victim in a triple homicide police believe to be the work of long suspected mafia affiliate…"_

A half empty box of donuts sat on a table, Rachel passed them by as she walked towards the back counter. The pot was heavy as she poured the coffee, steaming hot and fresh, into her mug. She lifted it, breathing deeply as she nursed the first tiny sip gingerly past her lips. Behind her the news headline continued to play on.

"…_further in breaking news, last nights fundraiser for District Attorney Harvey Dent came to a terrifying conclusion when guests found themselves held up at gunpoint by a band of rebels, led by the serial madman known simply as "The Joker". Bruce Wayne, president of Wayne Enterprises, and the evening's host, has refused any further comment on the night's horrific events. However Mr. Wayne was able to verify to news crews last night that all the guests had escaped unharmed…"_

Rachel turned sharply to see the Joker's face blown up over the entire left hand side of the screen, a second later her foot rioted in scalding pain.

"_Shit!"_ she yelled before she could stop herself, her nails dug into her thigh.

The coffee mug had slipped from her hand and landed on the ground in front of her, spilling onto her foot. She scrambled to remove her pantyhose, thanking god that no one was in the room. Falling backward into a chair she pulled her foot up on her opposite knee. It was pulsing red, and smarting like hell, but no serious damage had been done.

She clenched her teeth, furious that she had overreacted so unnecessarily. But when she closed her eyes she was unable to chase him from her mind, his leering face inches from hers, and his hands biting with insistent hardness into her face. She remembered the undercurrent of anger that had caught around the edges of each syllable, of every word, he spoke to her. She shivered, if Bruce had not been there…and yet it was _because_ of Bruce that the Joker had come.

"_You just take off your little mask and show us all who you really are."_

Rachel knew what was underneath Batman's mask, but what was beneath the Joker's?

Her thoughts were interrupted when a talkative bunch of women passed through the doorway, the intern from that morning amongst them. Their conversation halted and they paused awkwardly as their eyes drifted to Rachel, sitting alone in the chair, shoes off off in a puddle of coffe, and pantyhose discarded on the floor. Rachel felt blood rushing up to scald her cheeks. She rightened herself, and stood quickly. A few urgent glances at each other and the group made to press themselves quickly back out the door.

"Mrs. Daniels-" Rachel called back, following through instinct before she had time to question herself. The intern froze tense in the doorway. "I was wondering if I might ask you a favor."

The girl relaxed visibly and turned, relived. "Of course Miss Dawes."

"Have you seen the pictures of the Joker on the news?" The girls eyes solemned predictably and she nodded her head. "So you are familiar with his distinct facial scars?" Again, she got no response other then a solemn nod. Rachel took a deep breath, "I want you to call all the hospitals within the city limits and request access to the records of every emergency room admittance dating back to fifteen years from today. And then I want you took look for admittances with injuries that could lead to such scars as the Joker's. I don't care how long it takes, look through them all…or bring them to me, and I'll look through them myself."

The girl's face fell. "But Miss Dawes, it would breach patient doctor confidentiality for them to share the records to even _one_ case- "

"Without a court order, I know. Ask anyway, drop my name."

The girl swallowed deeply, but she nodded one last time before leaving the room, "Yes, Miss Dawes."

Rachel let out the breath she had not realized she had been holding, and stopped to question her sanity. The idea was ridiculous. Even if some completely incompetent nurse_ did_ hand over ten years of medical records to an _intern_, it would an entire _team_ of people _days_ to sort through it all. So why was unease curling up so intensely in her fingertips?

As she walked past her office door someone grabbed her by the back of the elbow and pulled her inside. She turned into baby blue eyes and a strong firm jaw line. "Harvey," she said startled "what are you doing here?"

"What? Not happy to see me?" His hand brushed down her elbow and lingered at her hip.

"Very happy." she smirked "But surprised, they say the Gotham's White Knight is in high demand these days."

He rolled his eyes and his hand dropped from her hip; Rachel immediately missed its warmness. "Try telling that to Gordon's men."

She walked back over to her desk; he followed behind her, leaning against it. Rachel noticed his eyes widen slightly as his hand moved over the large stack of files. "Harvey you're only one man, they can't expect you to be everywhere at once."

Harvey's jaw tightened, "They don't. They would prefer I stay out of their affairs entirely."

"So then what are you doing here?" She asked, letting her fingers climb over his hand resting on the edge of her desk.

"Getting into their affairs. After last night's events I wanted to check in on Lau personally, we need him alive long enough to testify."

"Is that all?" she pressed, holding his gaze flirtatiously.

He chuckled and brushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear while his fingers interlaced with hers on the desk below. "And stopping by to say hello to the most beautiful woman in the city."

Rachel tensed at his choice of words, a sudden shiver brushing against the base of her spine. _Why hello beautiful._

She quickly shook it off. Harvey had not been in the room, he had no way of knowing what fearful connotations those words had. Her unease quickly dissipated as one of Harvey's arms wrapped with promise around her waist, a different sort of shiver started through her.

"Just stopping by?"

"Mhmm" he murmured playfully, and closed the space between them. Rachel moaned lightly as his lips dropped down along her neck, she felt him smile and release a heated sigh in response. "You know," he breathed deeply "after all the insanity of last night, I never did get a proper answer to my question."

In an instant Rachel felt her heart drop to the bottom of her stomach. Oh. She detached herself from him reluctantly. "Harvey…"

He read the tone in her voice and his eyes fell to the floor disappointed. "It's too soon, I know."

"Hey" she squeezed his hand caringly "I love you."

He looked up at her; his eyes were tired, but hopeful. He squeezed her hand back, "I know, and I can wait."

Rachel smiled and moved around the desk. "Are we still on for dinner tonight?" she asked.

A few blocks from the office was an authentic 1950's burger joint that specialed in greasy food and runny milkshakes, served by rude, self-righteous, college kids. Rachel thought it was adorable, and Harvey frequently indulged her odd taste. Although he never ordered anything more then a plain side salad himself, and never failed to remind her that _he_ used to work in a place like this, and that there was a good chance the creamy white substance she was dipping her fries in was only half ranch. Rachel chose to have more faith in humanity.

"Of course. Hopefully uninterrupted this time," Harvey replied. He had muttered the last part under his breath, but she knew he meant for her to hear it.

"I don't think fries and milkshakes are really Bruce's scene," she answered, guessing who the comment was directed towards, and trying to suppress a smirk as she pictured Bruce in an Armani suit waltzing into the burger joint with two Brazilian goddesses glued to his pelvis.

Meanwhile Harvey bristled at the mention of Bruce's name. "You would know better then me."

She rolled her eyes annoyed. Usually she found his jealousy chivalrous, and even a little exciting, she would admit guiltily, were she being honest with herself. However when it came to Bruce it was simply irritating. They had had this conversation many times before. "We're friends Harvey."

As usual, her crossness only riled him further. "Rachel the guy's a prick. He thinks he owns you just because your parents worked for his twenty years ago."

"I admit that Bruce can, and often does, act like a chauvinistic ass. But he is not the man I am in a relationship with, you are. And right now _you're_ acting like child," she finished, letting a thick folder smack loudly onto the desk to signal the end of the conversation. She watched his lips press together in anger.

"I'll see you tonight," he said and turned to walk out of the office.

"Goodbye Harvey." The door clattered shut loudly.

Rachel fell back into her seat, grinding her teeth. Why was it that recently all of their conversations seemed to end this way? Before she could get settled there was another knock on the door, she swore beneath her breath.

"What is it now?" she called back a little too loudly. However in place of Harvey's broad form, a distinctly female, distinctly terrified, face peeked around the corner. The girl looked as if Rachel had just threatened to set her on fire and chuck her out the fifth story window. She groaned and dropped her head into her hands.

"I'm sorry I thought you were someone else, you can come in Mrs. Daniels." She waved forward with her hand as if to insist it was safe. The door creaked open a few more inches and the young intern stepped inside.

"None of the hospitals in the city would give me access to their records," she began nervously. Rachel had expected as much. She was about to dismiss the girl, but she was already rushing on, her voice growing with confidence and excitement with each word. "But I ran a quick search in the news archives of all the city papers, and I found an article from 1998 that I think you should see, " she finished with breathless pride.

Rachel looked up, a printed copy of a newspaper article was held out in front of her. "Does it mention an incident of the kind I described to you?"

"Not exactly Miss Dawes."

Rachel furrowed her eyebrows "Then what?"

The intern's eyes lit up, "Well Miss Dawes, see it doesn't just mention one case…it mentions eight."


	3. Terrible Angel

**AN:** Oh dear. This chapter is about three days late. I blame the 4th for this last weekend, and my trip to Stratford (Canada) the weekend before that. I saw Macbeth, it was amazing. The sound designer was a GENIUS. Anyway, you can pretty much expect weekly updates from now on. End note.

* * *

TERRIBLE ANGEL

A tremor of fear, or excitement, or something else Rachel couldn't quite place rocked her on the spot. She ripped the article from the intern's hands. _Eight? _ He had to be in there somewhere. But as her eyes skimmed quickly over the short article, the burst of hope that had suddenly kicked through her was squashed.

_ANOTHER DEAD IN 'SMILE SLAYINGS_

_Tony Spilotro was found dead last night in his Southside apartment on Lovell Street. Paramedics rushed to the scene after a call from police, who had arrived only moments earlier with a warrant for Mr. Spilotro's arrest under numerous drug trafficking charges. They were unable to resuscitate Mr. Spilotro, who suffered from two identical gashes at the corners of his mouth, as well as an abdominal stab wound, determined to be the cause of death. Mr. Spilotro is the fifth reported dead in the recent "smile slayings". Others victims include Jimmy Burke age 40, Maria Franco 26, Joe Porello 44, Inagawa Kakuji 38, as well as surviving victims, Eva Salvatore 49, Semyon Malevich 48, and Ricardo Defran 49. _

Only three victims left alive, one of them female, and both surviving men in their late forties at the time. Which would place the Joker would have to be in his upper fifties if one of them was his secret alias. Rachel remembered the strength with which he'd forcefully held her captive, before dropping her out the window. It was not the strength of man about to enter senior citizenry. Still, if these people had altercations with the Joker back then, there was a chance they might know something now. It was a good starting point, her only starting point.

The man in the article, Tony Spilotro, he had been under arrest for drug dealing. Which meant he had a criminal record, so he was in the system. Looking at the other names, Rachel was willing to bet they did too. Franco, Milano, Porello, Defran, she recognized them from the pile of folders on her desk, they were mafia. A pattern was starting to emerge, and being assistant district attorney had its advantages.

"Mrs. Daniels," she said, "I want you to go downstairs and get them to run all the names in this article, start with the last three."

"Yes Miss Dawes" she obliged, and disappeared quickly out the door.

---

Rachel approached the front door of the decrepit house in front of her. The paint was all but gone and one of the second story windows was boarded up. It was hard to believe anyone lived inside. She looked down at the sheet of paper Mrs. Daniels had given her containing the addresses of the three surviving victims at the time of the attacks. The first name in the intern's bubbly handwriting read,

_Ricardo Defran- 15564 Swathmore Drive_

Rachel double checked the address on the door, it was correct. She rapped hard, no one answered. Angry shouts could be heard from a few blocks back. Rachel crunched her teeth together to keep them from chattering, and tried not to remember she was standing on a known criminal's doorstep, in the dodgiest part of Gotham, alone. She began to doubt her sanity, and knocked with greater force. This time the door opened, and then she knew she was insane.

The figure towering over her was dressed in shredded jeans and an open flannel shirt that hung loosely off his wide shoulders. His nails were pitch black. Rachel was unable to tell if it was from dirt or nail polish, and wasn't sure which she would have preferred. An elaborate tattoo of a bleeding snake covered almost all of the right side of his chest. It wasn't until she looked up at his face that she realized he was just a boy, in his late teens, at the oldest.

"Ricardo Defran?" she asked doubtfully.

"He doesn't live here anymore."

"Oh, I'm sorry to have bothered you." She said quickly and made to go, but his voice called her back.

"My father died six years ago."

Rachel turned. "Ricardo, was your father?" He nodded. "I'm so sorry, I wasn't aware," she paused. "Do you think I could come in to talk for a little while? What's your name?"

The boy's gaze hardened. "Martin. What's this about?"

Rachel removed the printed article from her purse and handed it to him, "This."

His eyes met it with recognition. He looked her up and down once more before nodding his head, "I thought so- I mean I knew eventually- come in." Rachel stepped through the front door, a burst of warm air greeting her graciously. "You a cop or something?" Martin asked.

"Lawyer, actually. I work for the city." She started to unfasten the buttons on her coat.

He nodded as if expecting this too, and led her into the living room. "Yeah, you don't really look much like a cop."

She smiled. "No, I suppose not."

He gestured for her to sit on faded couch in the center of the room. It sank too much beneath her weight, as if the springs had given up years ago. The rest of the room held the same sad demeanor. The carpet was a stained mustard yellow and the floorboards creaked beneath it. The wallpaper was distressed, peeling in places. All the furniture was wobbly and mismatched; as if it had been randomly acquired through various rummage sales. The air felt tight, and reeked of beer and cigarette smoke.

Even the last bit of daylight peeking through the window seemed stale. Rachel found herself taking particular interest in the curtains. They looked hand crafted, their pretty pink flowered pattern strangely cheery in contrast with the otherwise gloomy atmosphere. Brave, she thought, the only resilient bit of effort left in the place.

"My mom made them," said Martin, following her gaze. "You want something to drink? I think there's still half a six pack left in the fridge."

"Where is your Mother, Martin?"

He froze, clearly uneasy. "I thought you said you weren't a cop."

"I'm not. I was just curious. And I'll pass on the beer, but thank you."

"She's been in and out of Arkam the last few months."

"Oh," was all Rachel could think to say.

"I'm eighteen." There was an awkward pause while he seemed to be evaluating her, gauging her response to this new information. Rachel continued to let her eyes roam curiously around the room. When at last he visibly relaxed and sank into the armchair across from her, she figured she had passed his test.

"So," he started slowly, "what do you want to know? I'll tell you right off that I don't know who he is, or where you can find him."

Rachel raised an eyebrow, her mouth going dry. Him. "You were there? When the incident took place?"

"Yeah, I was."

She attempted to swallow, her stomach emptying in quiet shock. "Well, why don't you start by telling me what happened." She watched as he bent his head toward the floor, his cheeks hollowing. "Martin?"

When he looked back up his eyes were shiny and his face was hard. "My father" he started, "…he was a drunk. He could down half a fifth of whiskey in an hour, and then he would go into these fits, and when they were bad he'd take it out on my mom. Sometimes he'd go after me, but mostly just my mom. There was always yelling. I was just a kid, but I was used to it. That night though, something was different." Martin paused, trying to find the words to explain himself. He pushed his hair back from his forehead, Rachel noticed his knuckles were scabbed and swollen.

"There was this really loud pounding on the door," he began again. "But it wasn't really like pounding, it was kicking, like he was trying to kick it down. I knew it was my father cause I could hear him yelling. And I remember my mom didn't want to let him in. She kept asking him why he didn't have his key, and he wouldn't answer her, he just kept kicking and yelling. So eventually she unlocked the deadbolt, but she still wouldn't undo the chain. That seemed to make him angrier so he started kicking harder, slamming himself against the door, and eventually he just broke through it.

"Usually my father would drink at home. Like I said, half a bottle of whiskey, or a six-pack of beer, or whatever, you know? But this time he was already trashed. Only he wasn't drunk. Well maybe he was, but it was something else too. His eyes were huge, all over the place, and he kept clenching his hand in a fist a squeezing real hard." He demonstrated with his own fist. Rachel winced as the scabs stretched and cracked, but if there was any pain Martin did not acknowledge it.

"My mom kept asking where his key was, he said he lost it. But she wouldn't leave him alone. She asked him where he'd been, and she kept saying 'Look at me, look at me!', and asking 'What is wrong with you, what did you take? How could you bring this into our house? You tell me what you're on!' I remember being really mad at her, cause she just wouldn't leave him alone, and I knew it was making him mad, and I was afraid he was going to do something. I didn't understand why she wouldn't just _stop_.

"But she was like hysterical, crying and all that, and she hit him. Slapped him across the face. And so he pushed her into the kitchen table. But then, we used to have this big glass sort of fruit bowl, and she picked it up and threw it at him." Martin faltered, the words had been bubbling out of him. Rachel remained silent, afraid of this sudden stop would be the end of his confession, and unsure of weather to urge him onward. But she didn't have to.

"It hit him in the chest. They both stopped yelling. I was on the other side of the room, my father had his back to me but I could see my mom. Her face was just frozen, her mouth hanging open a little. I think she was in more shock then he was. Like she thought the bowl had just slipped from her hands, and she didn't understand why it was broken at my father's feet. Then she started trembling, and even though my father still hadn't moved she started whispering really fast, repeating the same thing over and over. ' I'm sorry, I'm sorry, no, no please, Ricky, Ricky, Ricky. ' That's what she used to call him.

"He walked over top my mom, he didn't say anything, he just walked over, and he grabbed he by the arm and started to pull her out of the room. I didn't know what to do. He dragged her past me, by now she'd started screaming. Her eyes locked on to mine ' Call the police' she said, 'Martin please, go, go!' She was begging me, I had to do something, and so I ran.

"I ran to the phone and I picked it up, but before I could dial my father turned to me and told me to put it down. He still didn't yell, he said it real gentle, coaxing, 'Now Martin, put down the phone, put it down, put it down right now.' like that. But his voice was real uneasy, almost crackling, and his eyes were black and shaking. My fingers went numb with fear, like I swear they were actually swollen." Rachel's eyes fell again to his knuckles, his fingers rapped nervously against the arm of the chair.

"I didn't dial 911, I didn't put the phone down. I couldn't hear. I mean I saw his mouth moving, 'Martin! Martin!' and I saw his face get redder and redder, but that was it. I don't know if I closed my eyes then or what but suddenly I was on the floor. I think I actually felt the pain before I saw his foot punching down on my face. There was only pain, and breaking bones, and tearing skin, and hurting. Each cry I made for my mom was punctuated by his fist bouncing against my jaw. I felt as though I would never escape the pain, never stand up off the floor, I thought he was going to pound me right down into it."

"But he didn't," said Rachel, "He didn't get the chance." A rush of shame broke red across her face.

Martin starred back at her, equally shocked by her interruption. "No, I guess I didn't," he said, nodding his head in silent understanding. "I felt lighter. At first I thought I must be dying, or loosing consciousness, I could still feel the blows exploding over my body. But then I realized my father was being lifted off me.

"It was him. I saw barely a glimpse of his face, but I can tell you he didn't wear that face paint then. When they first started showing his picture on TV I didn't recognize him. It was only when I heard his laugh…he was laughing the whole time. It was weird in contrast to my father, who kept making this strangled whimpering noise. And then his body dropped like a twisted puppet next to me on the floor. His face was turned toward mine. At first I thought he was smiling, and that the painful gurgling noise he made was laughter." He paused again. Rachel wondered if the pain etched across his face was for himself, or for his father.

"The next thing I remember is waking up in the hospital with my mom crying over me and telling me how sorry she was. My father lived, but I never heard from him again. When I came back home he was gone. I asked my mom what had happened to the man who had saved me, but she refused to talk about it. Years later the police came to our door to ask her to identify a body. It was my father. He had been living on the streets. After that my mom started to have sporadic breakdowns. I think she felt guilty or something, but they were never real bad. I could always handle it, they didn't last long."

Until now, thought Rachel. They both knew what he meant. Her fits had been manageable, until she had looked up from her coffee one day to see the Joker's face plastered across the morning news. Martin may have gotten no more then quick glance, but Rachel was willing to bet his Mother had. She had seen something to scare her into ten years of silence. And whatever secrets she kept were locked with her safely behind the tall ominous walls of Arkam asylum.

Rachel sighed, her head felt heavy. Martin was looking at her expectantly. She was struck by a sudden wave of helplessness. This boy had experienced more pain in the first eight years of his life then she probably would in her entire lifetime, and all she had to comfort him with was paper thin reassurances, and her thanks.

"Martin, thank you for sharing this with me. I'm so sorry about everything. If you ever need help, or if you ever get in a situation where you need legal council I can give you my card-"

"No thanks," he interrupted.

"Well then if you just need to talk again-"

"It's ok."

Rachel nodded, she didn't see the point in pushing him any further. But something was still bothering her. "Martin, if I could just ask one last question, and I apologize if this is too forward," she hesitated. "Your past relationship with the Joker, it could potentially put you in a lot of danger now that he has resurfaced. Despite that, I understand why you didn't come forward with your story to the police. But what stopped you from going to the press? You must understand how relative this information could be to his arrest?"

For a moment he starred blankly back at her, then his eyes slowly drooped. "Miss, I'm afraid _you_ don't understand," he said, a sad smile crawling across his face. "Whatever he has become, ten years ago, that was the man that saved my life."

---

She was a pretty girl, obviously so. Irritatingly so. Her suit was pressed too pristine, the jacket fell overly neat down her chest, her skirt wrapped too clean around her thighs. Her voice, though insistent, floated too easily into the phone pressed carefully between her ear and shoulder.

"I've still got a lot to do here, baby."

He twirled an open knife between his fingers to the arduous rhythmic tap of her heels against the pavement.

"I love you too, but I still have to stay late."

He couldn't remember the last time he had encountered something so irksome. He wanted to wreck her. He was going wreck her.

"Look it's not like it's just some school thing, I can't just pick up and go anymore. This could be a real opportunity for me, for _us_, but only if I make a good impression. I mean come on baby it's like practically the rest of my life on the line here-"

"Put it on hold blondie, you're gonna want to take this call." The phone dropped out of her hand, and dirty purple glove caught her scream.

The Joker's head twitched pleasantly up and to the side as one of her stiletto heels snapped apart from the shoe. As it's owner was dragged back into the ally it was left oddly out of place on the sidewalk, without protest, broken, and abandoned.

---

When Eva Salvatore opened the front door to her apartment Rachel had to focus every ounce of willpower she possessed into not voicing her horror, and it almost wasn't enough. This time there was no question that she had gotten the right address. Although she had been quietly preparing herself for this since leaving her corner office that morning, the shock of seeing those scars in such close proximity was almost enough to knock her on her back.

At first, though the aging woman had warmly invited her into the small sitting room, it had continued to unsettle her deepest instincts to see _his_ scars displayed so openly across her kind features. They were at drastic odds with her calm voice. She kept expecting _his _wild laugh, or chill snarl.

But gradually, as she began to tell her story, Rachel began to notice several differences between the victim and aggressor. For one, the lines extending from Mrs. Salvatore's mouth were far gentler, and more deliberate then the Joker's. They were rather like markings then scars, and they were much less severe. In fact, intensely more noticeable was the large ornate cross that fell from a heavy chain around her neck.

It was not the only religious icon in the room.

A large crucifix carved entirely from some type of dark unfinished wood hung from a nail on the wall to the left. The Christ figure's head was tilted sadly to one side, the crown of thorns cutting painfully into his vision, and his mouth downturned in a weary grimace. A colorful statuette of the Virgin Mary stood on the mantle. She knelt with her hands pressed together in humble prayer; a lamb lay sleeping at her feet. There was a beautiful pearl rosary displayed elegantly on the coffee table beside a stack of back issues of "Life". In a small bookshelf, filled mostly with paperbacks, was a tiny bible with pages lined in dark gold foil. Everywhere religious articles were meshed between everyday objects. Yet the display was by no means overbearing, it was clearly meant to be a subtle whisper of faith. Nothing was so bold as the cross hanging from Mrs. Salvatore's neck. Rachel brought her eyes back to the woman's just as she was coming to a finish.

"The pain was so bad," came her carefully aged voice. "I was unable to talk, unable to cry. I couldn't move my tongue without being overtaken by a new wash of agony. I thought I would choke on the blood that filled my mouth because I was too afraid to spit it out. I collapsed on the ground, he fell with me. The world was spinning. I didn't know where to go, so I crawled into his arms. He held me, laughing and petting my head. There was so much blood. It soaked into his shirt, and it got all over my hands as I grabbed at him. I clutched him so tight, for hours…" Mrs. Salvatore trailed off, something dark edging into the corners of her eyes.

"Mrs. Salvatore, it's ok," said Rachel, moved by the woman's emotion. "He won't hurt you again."

"Oh, I know that dear," she replied, "He wouldn't hurt me, he saved me." Rachel starred in shock. With Martin she understood, but this woman too? "Are you a religious person dear?" asked Mrs. Salvatore.

The question took Rachel by surprise. "Ah…I can't say that I am, no." Though she had been baptized into the Catholic Church as an infant, her parents rarely attended mass. She had not been to church in over a decade. "When I was younger my parents would sometimes take me to Sunday mass, but as I got older…"

"You fell astray, " finished Mrs. Salvatore. "I can understand that. It was not so long ago that I was very much astringed from the church as well. I started gambling every weekend, lost track of how many people I owed money too. And when you're indebted to as many people as I was, well, some of them are bound to be the wrong kind of people, if you know what I mean. I lost everything, my job, and my car, even my husband. My life was crumbling down around me. I wanted to die. The night he came, I was planning my suicide.

"But when he put the knife up to my mouth, I suddenly realized I_ didn't_ want to die. I had only liked the thought of death, the idea of it, and there's a difference. I turned my life around that day. It wasn't easy. It took a lot of hard work, a lot of self control, and most of all, a lot of faith." Her wrinkled hand brushed against the cross at her neck. "Every day I saw my scars in the mirror, I thanked Christ that I was alive. And I thanked him for sending that man, my savior."

"Mrs. Salvatore-"

"I know what you're going to say" she interrupted. "I know why you're here, and I know what you have to do. I won't defend him. But still…" she took a deep breath "I suppose the last coherent thought I have in this life will be spent trying to recall the exact sound of my name coming so strangely beautiful from his monstrous lips…_Eva.._" She brushed away a swell of tears brimming out of the gently wrinkled corners of her eyes.

"And him" asked Rachel, "did he give you his name?"

Mrs. Salvatore's eyes sparkled. "Why yes," she said, as if suddenly remembering something long forgotten. "It- it was Jack."

Rachel's mind went dizzy with excitement she could barely contain. _Jack._ She almost leapt up from the couch, but restrained herself upon seeing Mrs. Salvatore continuing to blot her eyes with a tissue she had pulled from her pocket. Her heart clenched on a pang of pity.

"Mrs. Salvatore," she began slowly, "I can't even begin to tell you how valuable your cooperation been, thank you. I can say that on behalf of the entire Gotham police force and on behalf of…myself."

The sudden realization of how true that was hit her full force. She had not realized exactly how much of this she had done not only for the citizens of Gotham, but to empower herself against a haunting enemy. A heavy weight settled around her shoulders as she acknowledged the responsibility that came with this knew information. Jack might very well prove to be the soft spot in the Joker's dragon hide. To who would she entrust this power? Would she leave it in the hands of the law, with Harvey? Or with…Bruce.

"Are you all right, dear?" Mrs. Salvatore's voice pulled her back into the cozy apartment room. Rachel felt her cheeks glow, she lowered her eyes as if to apologize for dazing off. The older woman smiled, "I think you could use a cup of tea."

Before she could think to protest Mrs. Salvatore had already disappeared into what was presumably the kitchen. Rachel reached down to the coffee table and picked up the pearl rosary that had caught her interest earlier, she casually rolled each bead between her fingers with half hearted fascination.

She needed to think, weight her options more carefully. What was to say she had to choose between Bruce and Harvey? And there was of course a third option. She could keep her findings to herself, and wait to run to either of them until she had something more concrete then a first name. In reality this last option seemed the most sensible, only Rachel did not think her conscious could bear the secrets of not only one, but both, of the most dangerous men in Gotham.

_It's different then it is with Bruce_, she told herself firmly. She knew Bruce, she didn't really have any idea who the Joker was. All she knew was his name. _ It's not the same. _With this last reassurance Rachel placed the rosary back on the table, it really was quite beautiful. Mrs. Salvatore had been gone a good five minutes. She hated to be rude, especially considering the circumstance, but she wasn't much for tea, and the apartment was starting to feel smaller by the second. She was sure Mrs. Salvatore would not be too upset if she quietly snuck out.

Rachel was about to rise to leave when her eye caught sight of the wrinkled object next to the place she had just returned the rosary. It was a bent up old playing card lying face up, but partially concealed under the stack of magazines. For a second she wondered what it was doing all by itself on the table, and then she saw the figure dancing across the front. She reached for it- but her hand froze at the unmistakable click of a gun cocking behind her.

"Mrs. Salvatore?" she asked, her heart skipped several beats while the blood drained from her face.

"You know I had forgotten his name was Jack." Rachel turned to look into the barrel of .22 caliber pistol.

She held up her hands. "Mrs. Salvatore please put the gun down," she said, more shocked and confused then frightened, and struggling to keep her voice calm.

"I'm sorry my dear but I can't do that. I recognize you from the television, Miss Dawes. Recognized you from the moment you stepped through my door." A funny sort of smile was building on her face.

"Don't you see?" she asked, one of her hands came down to clutch the cross around her chest. "God placed you on my doorstep. A reward for all my years of faith." Her hand started to shake under the weight of the gun. "Of all the homes in the city, Gotham's ADA shows up under _my_ roof. It's a miracle, another miracle!"

"What are you talking about?" Rachel demanded, real fear starting to set in at the woman's crazed words.

"After he came back to me…after all those years, my angel, returned to me at last. Can you imagine?" she whispered. Rachel stood silent in petrified awe, her mind racing to put two and two together.

"But he left," rambled on. "For days I went without a word, without a whisper. Except that I kept _seeing_ him, hearing him everywhere, the papers, the television, the radio. One day I came home from church and he was just sitting there. An-and he told me that the next time he came it would b-be to _kill_ me!" A fresh stream of tears poured openly down her weathered features. "But now that I've got you, my dear, now he won't! You were sent to me Miss Dawes, a beautiful blessing from above! Now he'll see how much he needs me! He'll come back to me, I know he will."

"You're insane!" cried Rachel, "Mrs. Salvatore your traumatized, you need psychiatric help."

"He needs me!" she shouted back. "All those years ago he saved me, he chose me. I can help him!"

"No, no didn't save you. He hurt you. That's what he does, he causes pain, and he kills people! He tried to kill me! He almost did, without a second thought. The Joker is soulless _killer _that gets off on screwing with people's minds! He doesn't need you, he doesn't need anyone!" She was frantic. None of what she had said seemed to register with Mrs. Salvatore. Rachel changed her approach, trying to force some semblance of reason back into her voice. "If he said he'll kill you then he will. Even if you hand deliver him my dead body."

Mrs. Salvatore shook her head and kept the handgun pointed straightforward, "He won't."

"Other people are going to die if you do this, it won't just be me. You're God wouldn't want this! Mrs. Salvatore please, you're not like him, you're not a murderer. I know you don't want to do this."

"This was Christ's doing, it was through his almighty power that you came to me. This is his wish. I'm sorry, I thought you would understand."

"That I have to die?" screamed Rachel. "Look," she said in a last desperate attempt, "If you let me go now, no one has to find out about any of this, I promise. Just put the gun down."

"I can't do that dear." Mrs. Salvatore's face seemed to tighten with fierce determination, her trembling hands steadied. "Please turn around now," She said.

"Why?" Rachel asked, "Will that make it easier for you?"

"Please."

For a moment Rachel refused to move, her mouth trembled in fury, and fear. Then slowly, she willed her body to turn it's back on the revolver. Her hands were shaking. She couldn't stop a violent high-pitched sob of pure fear from escaping out of her lungs, or hot tears from scalding her cheeks. She sucked it a final ragged breath, her heart was beating through her ribcage. Breathe, beat, blood, _life_. All of it was about to be ripped away from her.

"Please don't do this," she pleaded one final time, unsure if it had been anything more then a prayer inside her mind.

The answer came from behind in the form of a nearly silent whisper, "I'm sorry."

A single shot exploded into the air. Rachel shut her eyes on the world, and the pain that was soon to come.

* * *

AN: Ahhhh welll, I suppose that's a bit of a cliffy isn't it? Heheh. Sorry about the massive chunks of dialogue, I tried to break it up the best I could. And I'm sorry my grammar there was probably all wrong and wonky. I'm currently in the market for a beta, hopefully when I find one it will improve. That, and my spelling. I don't know if there's any Anne Rice fans out there, but I've a new found respect for her writing (not that I wasn't already crazy obsessed). She'll have a character recall a story for about 100 pages, and of course, it reads effortlessly. Sigh.

Ooh, and what do you think of the new chapter titles? Do share :)


	4. Round One

**AN: **So apologies are in order, again...if there are any Harry Potter fans reading this, well, that's what happened. I saw the new movie, my muse saw Alan Rickman, and jumped ship to write a Snape/Ginny oneshot. She (my muse) has just now wondered back, hopefully she's here to stay.

* * *

_Disarm you with a smile_

_And cut you like you want me to_

_Cut that little child_

_Inside of me and such a part of you_

_Ooh, the years burn_

_-  
_

_I used to be a little boy_

_So old in my shoes_

_And what I choose is my choice_

_What's a boy supposed to do?_

_The killer in me is the killer in you_

_My Love_

_I send this smile over to you- _Smashing Pumpkins, _Disarm_

_

* * *

_

ROUND ONE

She sucked it a final ragged breath, her heart was beating through her ribcage. Breathe, beat, blood, _life_. All of it was about to be ripped away from her.

"Please don't do this," she pleaded one final time, unsure if it had been anything more then a prayer.

The answer came from behind in the form of a nearly silent whisper, "I'm sorry."

A single shot exploded into the air. Rachel shut her eyes on the world, and the pain that was soon to come…

…Pain that did not come.

She continued to wrinkle her eyes tightly shut in terrified expectation. She was a logical person. Logic said that her other senses must be wrong. The pain would start any second now, and she would feel a slow wetness drain down her neck. She knew she had heard that shot burst into the air-

Wait. No, that was wrong. The shot had not _burst_ into the air. The sound the bullet had made was more of a zing then a bang, the quick whisper of a silencer. But that was impossible, the cold, hard, _bare _barrel of Mrs. Salvatore's handgun was branded into back of Rachel's retinas.

What made even less sense was that traveling at around three hundred and seventy meters per second that shot should have killed her approximately ten seconds ago. The odds of Mrs. Salvatore completely missing her mark from a mere eight feet were slimmer then the odds of Rachel surviving the shot. Something had obstructed its path.

She could think of only two people faster then a speeding bullet, and Gotham was no Metropolis.

"B-B-Br-"

"Aw come _on,_ beautiful!" came a gruff voice from behind. "Everyone knows Batsy only lobbies on the side of the Brandy Campaign."

Rachel spun around. Something had obstructed the bullet all right. Mrs. Salvatore lay facedown on the ground, and one of her outstretched hands was wrapped loosely around the handgun, her finger was still open on the trigger. A fist sized hole gaped in the back of her ruined skull. The wound vomited a macabre rainbow of colors. Not just clean crimson, but dark oranges, and a messy salmon. The walls of Rachel's throat retched instinctively on a dry wave of disgust.

But far more disturbing to her then this gruesome sight was the name that she had nearly released into the unguarded air. Half a syllable more and it might have been the beginning of the end for the city of Gotham.

"Guess that makes two bitty bluebirds, huh?" Said the Joker.

He stepped over to the body and nudged Mrs. Salvatore's head to the side with the muzzle of the semi automatic in his hand. His mouth posed in a mock grimace as more of the wet pink membrane fell out of the old woman's head and onto the carpet.

"Finished off my promise to the lovely Eva, which would seem to make me square with you, hmm?" he said, looking up at Rachel. His thick lips popped in outward disappointment. "Shame, tied ends don't leave me much swing from."

"You…what do you want?" she asked, trying to match his gaze.

The Joker's eye's widened, "What do _I_ want?" His high-pitched laughter erupted with terrifying intensity against the walls of the room. "You're the one that's gone and dirtied your little fingers running all up and down the spooks of my past. What do _you_ want?"

"If you haven't been following me all day then how did you know I was here?"

He bit down on a particularly malicious smirk. "Yuh know any good lawyers Miss Dawes?"

"What?" she demeaned, confused by this rapid change of subject, and angry he had ignored her question.

"See cause I can't stand the new twits they're pumping outta law schools these days. Can't even handle a quick run across the street for a cup of coffee."

"I don't kno-"

"That jumpy bunch of interns you got scurrying around your office. I sympathize Miss Dawes, really I do." Rachel stood dumbfounded in the center of the room, clearly uneasy. He sighed, "You're not really picking up what I'm dropping down here, are you beautiful? You're a firecracker all right, but a bit slow when it comes to the big BANG, huh?"

Rachel fumed in outrage. She was about to shout back a response when as if on the cue of his shout three more figures burst into the room. The words fell dead on the tip of her tongue.

Two of the intruders were male, and very large. Their eyes were stern and just as hard as the biceps bulging from their upper arms. But the third figure, a young woman, cowered on her knees between them at a flimsy third of the size.

The pitiable creature was a mess. Her feet were bare, both her legs and arms were covered with minor scrapes and lacerations. Her clothing was covered in dirt, and ripped in places. When she looked up Rachel gasped at seeing the entire left hand side of face had swollen to a blotchy purple. Duct tape and a bunched up rag served as a makeshift gag to muffle her obvious crying. A helpless moan left Rachel's mouth as their eyes locked and she realized she recognized the woman before her.

"It's all right, the guys always go after the dumb ones first," continued the Joker. He bent down so that he was at eye level with his hostage. He pinched her chin between his thumb and forefinger. "Don't they, Miss Daniels?" The woman cringed at his touch and tried to back further between the two thugs. The Joker walloped. He slapped his thighs and jumped up. "Oh I know, I know, it's _Mrs._ Daniels isn't it?"

Ever since the Joker's attention had left her, Rachel had been slowly creeping toward the handgun cast aside on the floor. Now, with him fully distracted and his back turned, she threw caution to the wind and lunged for it. Her heart fluttered in triumph as her hand closed down on the magazine, but her victory was two seconds premature.

A lead foot kicked the gun from her hand just as an arm swept down and lifted her off the floor, wrapping around her waist like an iron vice. She cried in despair as her only hope skid across the floor and out of reach.

"_Let me go!" _she screamed in frustration, furious at the red-hot tears that burned down her face. A deep chuckle gloated mockingly in her ear.

She withered in the Joker's grasp and gained a few precious inches of freedom, only to be crushed back even more violently against his front. One of his hands pulled back on her forearm with bruising intensity. His other arm wrapped around her waist, his own gun still in hand, trapping her effectively against himself. His chin pressed against the crook of her neck, she twisted her head away from him.

"There there beautiful, hush sh shh" he whispered, his thumb rubbing in circles against her upper arm. Rachel continued trying to squirm out of his grasp. "HOLD STILL!" he barked, she felt his voice vibrate between her shoulder blades, and reluctantly stopped her futile struggling.

"Now then, I _am_ going to let go of you. And you're going to walk over to that chair, and have seat. And then the two of us are going to have a nice little chat." He pulled harder against her arm, Rachel sucked in on a gasp as pain twisted in her shoulder. "Any, uhh, funny stuff, and Ken over there," he gestured to one of the thugs in the door frame, "he'll twist the hair right off lawyer Barbie's pretty little head. And then I'm gonna put a bullet in it. Understand?"

Rachel nodded through clenched teeth. When he released her she wobbled on her feet. For a second her eyes looked longingly at the door, but she obediently took a seat in the armchair.

"I have ta say Miss Dawes," he said after she was seated "when Mrs. Daniels first informed me of your little quest, well, I was flattered."

"More then half the Gotham Police force is out with a warrant for your arrest," she responded. "I hardly see why my interest should come as a surprise."

The Joker leaned up against a wall, his left leg bearing slightly more weight then his right, and his shoulder slouching accordingly. His arms were crossed in front of him. "So what you're saying is it's, ah, nothing _personal _then?"

Rachel bent her elbow up against the arm of the chair. "Not at all."

"Well good." He smacked his lips, sucking on the bottom one like a sugary piece of taffy. "I'd hate to think you' let a lousy hundred feet put any hard feelings between us. I've come to make you uh proposition, beautiful." Rachel sat patiently, waiting for him to continue. "Since you're just soooo interested in my past, how's about we strike a deal?" he asked. "A name for a name. I'll give you mine, if you give me…the Batman's."

Rachel shook her head, closing her eyes. "No one knows who Batman is."

"Hm" he considered, "Hm, hm , so you're telling me the Bat leapt through that window just to test his wings?" he made a fluttering jest with his hands. "I can only think of one thing a man would chase off a fifteen story penthouse, and, well…" The joker flashed her a lecherous smirk. "Don't worry bunny, I pu-_romise _not to let Dent in on your di_rrr_ty little secret."

Rachel didn't respond, he frowned. "Why so tight lipped? Your tongue was plenty loose a few minutes ago…or did you think I missed that little slip?" Rachel's stomach flipped. "I may be a few cards short of a full deck, but I do know my abc's Miss Dawes. So let's see, B-R-andon? Bryan? Brett? Just let me know when I get close, mmk beautiful? Brady? Brad? Br-"

"No deal." Rachel interrupted, she wasn't about to let him stumble across the right name, and have one look at her tell him everything he needed to know. "It wouldn't be a fair trade."

"And uh, why's that beautiful?"

"Because," she said, making no attempt to conceal the smile spreading across her face, "I already know your name, _Jack._"

He was at her in a flash.

They were back in Bruce's penthouse ballroom. His fingers wrapped around her skull, pressing into her cheeks, a knife between her lips. And silence, the threatening hum of silence buzzing all around them. The only difference was his eyes. Last time they had been chiding, this time they were steely, glinting with fury, and something else. Something Rachel could not place, and did not care to. The blade turned against her mouth. How many times could she cheat death in the span of twenty four hours? She could smell his breath hot on her face, rancid with rage. Trembling caught in across her skin.

"You remind me of someone," he sneered suddenly, and he pushed her roughly away. She fell back into the armchair in a disheveled heap, too shocked to feel relief.

"There once was a little girl" he started, turning so sharply on his heel that it took her by surprise. "And she was a pretty little thing, like you," he nodded at Rachel. "Her daddy thought so too. Her daddy thought it was real pretty the way she lay across his mattress each night, dress torn open, real pretty the way she'd cry and beg for him."

The Joker paused. He had come to a stop behind the armchair. Now he leaned over so that his face loomed in front of Rachel, one of his hands holding her in place by her collar of her shirt. "Only one day the little girl grew into a little woman," he continued, "and she found a little man for herself. And the little man loved her, very much." Rachel shut her eyes, dizzy from the angle at which his eyes bore into hers. Annoyance pulsed in her temples. "Of course daddy didn't like that one bit. She was supposed to be daddy's little princess…"

"Stop it!" she yelled, jumping out of the chair and tearing away from his grasp. "I don't want to hear anymore of your stories!"

He looked affronted, "Stories, beautiful?"

"Yes!" she shouted back at him, not caring that she had started to scream. "Mrs. Salvatore, the loan sharks? You want to play connect the dots, that's fine. You never had a wife, that pitiful sob tale you wound up for me was a pathetic lie."

He did say anything, but she could feel his eyes burning dangerously into hers, warning her to watch her step. It didn't matter. She spit a chunk of hair away from her face.

"The boy, Martin Defran, did you kill him too on your way here?" Silence. "And Seymon Mollevich, what will I find when I knock on his doorstep?"

"A dead man!_"_ shouted the Joker, turning the coffee table on it back with a loud crash. There was a whimper from the doorway as Mrs. Daniels ducked a missile flying off the table. The Joker rushed towards the young woman, shoving one of his thugs out of the way. "I think, Miss Dawes, we've lost sight of the subject."

Grabbing a fistful of the interns short blonde hair, he shoved the barrel of his gun roughly under her chin. "You tell me the name of the Batman, or I'll blow Mrs. Daniel's teeth out."

"Don't!" Rachel gasped. Yes, she'd been egging him on. And yes it had been stupid, but she thought he'd come after her. She shook her head, this wasn't fair. The gun clicked into place under the interns chin. Rachel darted forward. "Wait-"

"For me!" he yelled excitedly. "Oops! Sorry, for you. I am." He dissolved into reckless giggling. Then the fit abruptly stopped with the same eerie suddenness in which it had started. His sobered gaze danced over every inch of Rachel except her own shaking stare. "Three minutes, Miss Dawes."

She staggered. "No. No, I need more time then that!"

The Joker's eyes rolled up around the room. "Tick, tock, tick, tock.." Rachel felt each twitch of the second hand as a quick pinch to her heart. Handfuls of her brown hair squeezed between her palms with the same horror struck fingers of a magician who just realized he had the wrong hat. "Tickety, tick, tick, tuh-_OCK._"

She was running blind, and falling. The next four words broke off her lips in a hope far too desperate to be consensual. "I'll go with you."

The Joker stopped his vicious taunting to raise a green painted eyebrow.

Rachel felt as though a rush of ice water had just flooded the dams her heart, but she knew there was no going back. "You were right." She took an icy breath. "Take me, and you won't need her. I know who Batman is."

Her eyes stuck to his, their darkness a magnet collecting her aimless hope.

The Joker quickly broke their gaze, looking to the clock hung in the far corner of the room. When he looked back at her his demeanor had intensified tenfold. "One hundred and five seconds, Miss Dawes."

Rachel screamed in frustration. "Why are you doing this? She doesn't know him! I hardly know her!"

"Would you like to?" He loosed his grip on the small woman's hair, running his knuckles down her mascara stained cheek with sadistic tenderness. "We could throw out the gag and the two of you could spend her last seconds discussing china patterns."

"Stop it."

The Joker laughed. "Her name is Rebecca."

The woman at last shattered her compliant silence, shrieking behind the gag. Rachel wanted desperately to reach out to her, and with this instinct came questions she hadn't the strength to vocalize. What would this young woman have her choose? What did _Rebecca_ want? She had started to rock defiantly back and forth on her knees. Her marred face was bulging against it's confines in ugly redness as a result of her failed outcries. All the while her clear blue eyes, hooded with terror, were turned up pleadingly at Rachel. She wanted to live.

"Twenty five seconds."

Rachel's legs gave out from under her, she fell hard on the ground. "_Please I can't choose!"_

"WRONG!!" The Joker roared with sudden lowness. "We can always choose, Miss Dawes." Rachel dropped her head in her hands, shaking her head. "Today, you've chosen to let this woman die."

Her head shot up. _"NO!"_

There came a gunshot. It was identical to the first, with the same sick silence. Making a promise of quiet's earlier threat. The hush of death closed in snowy curtains around Rebecca Daniels as her eyelids folded shut. She fell to the ground like a ravished clam whose baby pearl had been prematurely stolen from it's prismed womb. Injustice cried outrage, spilling scarlet tears down her breast.

Rachel turned away, numb to her own contrasting tears, dripping fresh and pure off her chin. "I was going to tell you," she whispered.

"Maybe," replied the Joker, his voice flat on the air. "Next time, you will."

"Next time?" asked Rachel, new dread fueling enough strength for her push herself out of the puddle she'd collapsed in.

"Midnight in back of Grandol apartments, it's your turn." Rachel opened her mouth to protest but he did not give her the chance. "Don't show, that's one death. Forget the name, two. Tell a friend, three. Bring a buddy, four. It's your roll, beautiful," he said. "But careful, the dice are loaded."

The Joker stepped crudely over Mrs. Daniels body, exiting the apartment. The two thugs were already in front of him.

"Wait," called Rachel, something had been nagging strangely at her before the Joker had threatened Mrs. Daniels. And in her given state, where she found herself stripped of feeling and her mind grasping back at the moments before the fatal gunshot, it was bothering her again. "The little girl in your story," she asked, "what really happened to her?"

The Joker stopped, craning his neck around to look at her curiously. He popped his lips on of smirk, but his eyes narrowed. He only took a moment to respond, and when he did he did so with horrible purpose.

"I killed her," he said plainly. And then the doorway was empty.

* * *

AN: Sidenote, and just so you have a clearer picture for the next chapter, in the movie "Grandol" appartments (where Rachel is supposed to meet the Joker next) are the appartments you can see in the movie during the funeral scene for the old Police Commisoner. How that for resserch?


End file.
